


The Winchester Games

by brokenidjits



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Child Abuse, Dean Has Self-Esteem Issues, Dean Has Self-Worth Issues, Implied Castiel/Dean Winchester, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Past Lisa Braeden/Dean Winchester, Violence, title may change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 05:55:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6553639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenidjits/pseuds/brokenidjits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam gets reaped, Dean doesn't hesitate to volunteer. However, there are more complications to the game than Dean originally thought, proving it to be harder than it appears on television.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Winchester Games

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Supernatural or The Hunger Games nor the characters of either.

**Dean POV**

I could hear Sammy tossing and turning the in the tiny bed above me, the springs squeaking each and every time his large, lanky body shifted. I raked a hand through my short hair and willed him to be quiet. He did for a moment, before groaning and flopping over on to his back.

“Dean? Are you awake?” His whisper cut through the darkness, and I immediately pushed myself up off of the hard ground. Knowing that Dad wasn’t around meant that I could slide into Sammy’s bed with him, just for a few moments. The springs protested as I added my weight to Sam’s, and though we both knew that the bed was too small for the both of us, neither of us protested. I was perched on the edge for an easy escape, ears listening for the creak on the porch and the tell-tale cursing of a drunk man. Sam instantaneously curled himself up a little, shifting into me, and I wrapped my arms around him.

“Sammy, they won't pick you,” I whispered to him, just like I had been doing ever year since he turned twelve. “I know that your genius brain has already deduced that the probability of you being picked is slim to none.”

Sammy sighed, and tucked himself further into me, even though I knew that it had to be uncomfortable. “You know that it’s not me that I’m worried about,” he murmured. “Your name is in there thirty-five times.”

I shook my head, even though I knew that he wouldn’t be able to see me in the darkness. “It’s my last year, remember? They aren’t going to pick either of us.”

I gently ran my hand through Sammy’s hair as he shifted, trying to get more comfortable on the hard mattress. He was so silent that I thought he had fallen back asleep, and moved to slide back out of the bed before I fell asleep, and his hand shot out, latching on to my wrist.

“Dean, I’m going to put my name in more times next year for tesserae.”

“No,” I scolded immediately. “I won't let you.”

“Dean, you said it yourself. This is your last year, which means that you won't be able to put in your name extra times for food.”

“I won't let you,” I repeated. “I got a job at the factory, and we’re going to make ends meet.”

“You and I both know that it won't help. Dad’s just going to drink away any money you bring home,” Sammy muttered. “That’s all he ever does.”

“Sam,” I warned him.

“Don’t ‘Sam’ me, Dean. You know that it’s true,” he defends himself.

“You need to watch what you say, even if it is true,” I reminded him, careful not to brush his still slightly swollen eye as I ran my hand through his hair again. He went silent again. “I know that you’re trying to think of some argument to convince me to let you put your name in more times, but I’m telling you now, it won't work. I said no, and that’s final.”

“Okay, Dad,” Sam grumbled, rolling away from me. I ignored the stinging feeling I felt at his comment as the creak on the porch reverberated throughout the room. I rolled off of the bed, and back on to the ground as the door swung open with a clash, revealing John Winchester. Even in the poor lighting, it wasn’t hard to tell that he was drunk as he stumbled towards us, and the overwhelming scent of whiskey could be smelled across the room. I could hear Sam mumbling under his breath, and kicked the underside of his mattress.

Dad made it three steps before collapsing and passing out, which was an improvement from last night, when he only made it two steps. I scrambled to my feet and shut the door before dragging Dad as gently as I could across the room and covered him with my worn, brown leather jacket.

“Go to sleep, Sammy,” I whispered as I lay down on the ground besides the bed once more. He didn’t say anything, and the creaking of the bed was the only notification that he was still awake. Hours later, the squeaks stopped as he finally passed out and I was able to drift into fitful sleep.

* * *

 

“What the fuck? You fucking son of a bitch!”

I woke to Dad screaming at Sammy, though he was too hung over to do anything but yell. Sam was standing over a soaking wet Dad, with a metal pail in his hand and not an ounce of regret on his face. Dad turned to glower at me, I knew that look, and I grabbed Sam’s arm, pulling him out of the shitty, rundown building we call home.

“What the hell, Sammy?” I demanded as we walked further away.

Sam shrugged. “He had it coming.”

“You need to learn not to piss him off so much, or-.”

“Or what, Dean? Or I’ll get what’s coming to me?” he snapped, glaring at me from underneath his flop of hair.

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“It sure as hell sounds like you are. It doesn’t matter how much I annoy him, that’s what children are supposed to do,” Sam argued. “He shouldn’t lay a hand against either of us.”

“You know that he’s sorry,” I murmured, motioning to the bruising around his eye that looked worse than yesterday.

“No, he’s not,” Sam argued.

“Christ, Sammy, stop arguing all the damn time.” I halted in my tracks, making Sam almost run into me.

“Maybe he shouldn’t make it so easy to argue with. If he would stop getting plastered all the fucking time-.”

“Sam, language,” I scolded.

“People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones,” Sam retorted.

“Sammy, you and I both know that Dad isn’t some lowlife wasting all of our money on alcohol. That’s how he’s coping, and at least he’s here,” I told him, defending Dad automatically.

“He could cope without getting plastered,” Sam countered.

“He’s getting better,” I tried.

“No, he’s not. He’s worse, and you know it, Dean. I get that he needed to cope, but it’s been almost three years since Mom died, and she’s not coming back.”

“Sam, stop it,” I growled. “Don’t say shit like that.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but managed to bite his tongue. I fished a few coins out of my pocket, and handed them to Sam. “Why don’t you go calm down, maybe walk to the market and get some bread? I’ll make breakfast for us before we have to go to the square.”

Sam took the money, and thanked me softly because we both knew that there was barely any grain and oil left at home. The newest bottle of oil, still three quarters of the way full broke against the wall two days ago when it got launched at Sam’s head, leaving us with the quarter of oil left over from last month, barely enough to feed one person for the next few weeks.

“Don’t be late, Sammy,” I reminded him and he nodded before walking in the direction of the market. Dad was up and stumbling around when I walked back into the house.

“You need to get that boy to be more obedient like you, Dean,” he scolded me, as he gripped the wall for support.

“Maybe you could try to get along just a little bit more?”

His sharp, scolding eyes locked on me, freezing me in place. “Excuse me?”

I looked away. “Nothing, sir.”

“That’s what I thought,” he snapped, picking up the mostly empty bottle of oil. “Where is the rest of the oil, Dean?”

I met his gaze briefly before looking away. “You threw it at Sam, and it hit the wall, shattering.”

“He probably deserved it,” Dad muttered.

_He always deserves it in your mind_ , I thought, but I knew better than to voice that.

Before either of could say anything else, Sam walked in the door, two pieces of bread in his hand. He hands one of them to Dad without a word, and turns to give the other to me.

“Sammy, did you get yourself one?”

He fidgeted, and avoid my gaze as I glared at him. I grabbed his wrist and forced him to take the bite-sized piece of bread back.

“Dean-.”

“Don’t argue with me, Sammy,” I told him. “I don’t want to hear it.”

Sam listened, but I could tell that he did it reluctantly and Dad started to mumble under his breath.

“Sammy, go get ready and I’ll see what I can do for breakfast,” I murmured, effectively distracting Sam from Dad.

Sam disappeared behind the ripped curtain that I had hung up a couple years ago for a bit of modesty and I turned back to Dad. He challenged me with a glare, and I kept my mouth shut, moving around the tiny area dedicated to being a kitchen, trying to take inventory of what we have. On the counter, in a small container, were a bunch of tiny red berries which I immediately recognized as June berries, and next to that were a couple of stalks of wild garlic.

By the time Sam appeared again, I had managed to throw together an edible, albeit shitty, breakfast. Sam scarfed it down, and smiled, telling me how good it was. I laughed, and ruffled his hair before going behind the curtain to change into something more formal.

Sam wasn’t smiling anymore when I came back out, and he was pacing nervously back in forth. Dad was sipping something out of cracked coffee mug and I was willing to bet my next year of wages on it being alcohol.

“Come on, Sammy,” I told him. “We don’t wanna be late.”

Sam nodded, unable to say anything. As he walked out the front door, I turned to Dad. “Don’t be late.”

He didn’t acknowledge me and I didn’t wait around to hear a response. Sammy dragged his feet, walking slower and slower as we got closer to the square.

“Dean-.”

“Sammy, deep breaths,” I cut him off. “You’re going to be fine. I’m going to be fine. After the reaping, we’ll just walk around for a bit, just me and you, okay?”

Sam nodded, and held his finger out for the Peacekeeper to prick. My eyes were on him as he got into his section and I barely felt the prick of the needle as I got checked in. I kept glancing back at Sam even as the mayor took the stage, reading the same boring speech that had been read in this district 72 times now. The mayor continues to ramble on about Panem, and North America, and the once thirteen districts. I glanced back at Sam again, and saw that part of him was entrapped by hearing about the Dark Days again, and the other part of him was utterly bored.

“It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks,” intones the mayor before reading the past victors of District 3. In the seventy-two years since the Hunger Games had begun, there have been five victors. Only two were still alive. Beetee Latier, an electrical genius, and Wiress Taylor, though she was more than a bit out of it.

Finally, the tribute escort, Onyx Tallon, took the stage and said, in an über bubbly tone, “Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!” His hair was dyed bright orange this year, a complete contrast from last year’s electric blue.

Through the crowd, I spot Sam again, the look of boredom gone as he nervously clenched and unclenched his hands, occasionally biting his lip.

Onyx Tallon, as always, says, “Ladies first!” and prances across the stage to the glass ball with tiny slips of white paper. He thoroughly mixed up the papers before pulling out a slip, and opening it.

“Lisa Braeden,” he read out clearly, and I felt a little pang as I searched the crowd for Lisa. It wasn’t hard to see her, despite that fact that she was so short. All around her, people had backed up, leaving her along in a circle, and as she walked by me, I could see the tears threatening to fall. Despite the fact that our relationship had ended on bad terms, I still felt bad for her. She was an only child, no sister to volunteer for her.  

Once Lisa was on the stage, Onyx Tallon crossed to the other glass ball, plucking out a name without mixing it up. The crowd drew in a collective breath and I’m feeling nauseous and so desperately hoping that it’s not me, because despite what I told Sam, I knew that the odds were most definitely not in my favor. He opens the slip of paper, and again in a clear voice, he reads, “Samuel Winchester.”

I lurched forward and was moving towards the stage before Sam could do anything. I could faintly hear him screaming behind me, and I didn’t have to look back to know that he was fighting against the Peacekeepers.

“I volunteer as tribute.”


End file.
